Fairy rings are a physical phenomenon in nature. They are circles of brown in an otherwise rich patch of green that appear seemingly randomly. They are actually caused by a fungus deep within the soil that feeds upon decaying organic matter. So, if you chop down a tree and leave some of the wood underground, you will create the perfect conditions for a future fairy ring.

In French tradition, fairy rings were known as ronds de sorcières (witches’ circles). The French believed that giant bug-eyed toads guarded the fairy rings, and that the toads would curse anyone who entered these circles.

In Germany, fairy rings were believed to be where witches danced on Walpurgis Night (an ancient spring festival).

In Austria, fairy rings were thought to be caused by the fiery tales of flying dragons. Once a dragon created a circle, nothing but toadstools could grow there for seven years.

In Western Europe, fairy rings were thought to be the result of elves or fairies dancing. Victorian folklorists regarded fairies and witches as related, since both danced in circles. Fairies were believed to dance only on moonlit nights, and the rings were visible the following morning.

Many people believed that fairy rings were dangerous places, best to be avoided. They thought that collecting dew from the grass or flowers in a fairy ring could bring bad luck, and that destroying a fairy ring was fruitless, as the fairy ring would simply grow back again.

Ancient legends focused on the tragic consequences of mortals entering a fairy ring. One superstition claimed that anyone who stepped into a fairy ring would die at a young age. Another claimed that anyone who entered a fairy ring would become invisible to the mortals outside and then would not be able to leave the circle. They would be forced to dance to the point of exhaustion, death, or madness.

But some people saw fairy rings as places of fertility and good fortune. The Welsh believed that mountain sheep who ate grass from a fairy ring would flourish, or that a house built upon a fairy ring would bring prosperity to its inhabitants.

Reading about fairy rings has somehow made me think of my character Margot. Margot is the narrator in my book, Three Women: The Mechanics of Grace. I want to get to know Margot better, so I can describe her to my readers. I already know a fair amount about her insides, but I’m not as sure about her appearance. Maybe the fairies can help me with this, as they have known Margot for a very long time.

I figure there must be a fairy ring or two out on my land. My plan is to find one, walk into it, and call on the fairies. Maybe this is foolhardy, but I think the fairies will be kind.

So off I go into a fairy ring. This is a mushroom fairy ring in the middle of my oak forest. Red-capped mushrooms rise out of the grass in a perfect circle. They are just close enough together that I have to step over them to enter the ring. I may be taking my life into my hands, but here I go:

“Fairies, if you’re there, please come tell me about Margot,” I say, believing with all my might that the fairies will appear if only I concentrate. I stare at the tops of the red mushrooms. Red mushrooms symbolize spiritual awakening and divine magic—a bridge between the physical and spiritual realms.

The ground begins to rumble under my feet, and flashes of red race around me in a circle. The flashes look like dragons’ tails. Those Austrians were not wrong.

From behind the mushrooms rise glittering fairies. The fairies are dressed in many bright colors. They seem to glow from within, lighting up the forest. I stare in fascination, hardly believing what I see.

The fairies hover above the mushrooms, touching down every now and then with their tiny feet. Finally, when they’ve deemed that I’m safe to be around, they settle on the mushrooms, spreading their colorful dresses daintily. They look expectantly at me, waiting for me to speak.

“Fairies—I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, “I need your help to learn about my character Margot. My readers are depending on me, and I can’t seem to make any progress in describing her.”

“Margot—yes—Margot,” the fairies respond together in their tinkling little voices. “We know her well. She has lived among us for centuries. She has hardly aged at all since she came to us. She is still fresh-faced with a milky complexion, and her cheeks are quite rosy like ours. Though she is prone to turning pale when she’s frightened.

Her hands are elegant, with long, delicate fingers. Her nose is slightly upturned, which makes her look like she’s tilting her head back. Add to this that she stands on the backs of her heels, so she constantly looks as if she might fall backward. This makes people move toward her, as they feel they might need to catch her.”

Then I add a bit of what I have learned about Margot:

“From what I can tell, Margot is interested in everyone around her, even if she doesn’t show it. Which she mostly doesn’t. But she notices every detail of what people say and do. She is on the lookout for something. It’s like she can never rest until she finds it. Her feelings seem erratic and unpredictable, so it can be confusing sometimes to determine what’s really going on inside her. She does care about others, though, and they sense that, and it puts them at ease.

But somehow a level of passion is missing in Margot. She’s cut off from a dimension of herself, in denial about something. This takes the drama out of her. She’s not someone who fascinates, like Rae or Grace. But if you need a dependable person, Margot is your girl.”

The fairies nod solemnly, then add more information of their own:

“Margot loves to wear blue. She does this in rebellion against her mother. When Margot was young, her mother would never let her wear blue, because her mother claimed it was HER color and no one else’s.

People always notice Margot’s imagination. Her imagination is so big it makes people think of her as being physically large. But really, she’s not. We fairies have big imaginations too. Also—we can make ourselves invisible, which is a very big strength.

Margot has been present on this earth for many generations, as have we. She is fierce and loyal and kind, but she is also clueless and fearful sometimes. Of course, we fairies are fearful too, we admit. It’s why we stand on our heels, just like Margot. We carefully watch the world around us, attempting to stay safe. We are also quite emotional and unpredictable.”

The fairies stand back on their heels, pleased with themselves that they have helped me. Then they add some more about fairy rings:

“You guys have told a lot of untrue stories about fairy rings, about the dangers of walking into a fairy ring, and that if you walk into a ring without our permission, you could become invisible to the outside world and never be able to get out.

Well, that’s just not true. We would not do this to you. Maybe if we got attacked—which we used to get when you guys lived near the forests—we would retaliate sometimes. But can you blame us for that? We would be wimps if we didn’t fight back.”

It’s my turn to nod solemnly now. I realize I feel at home with these fairies. I want to learn more from them. Maybe they really can help me flesh out my character, Margot. Being a writer is sometimes a difficult and lonely business. Maybe the fairies can help me do my job.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book (Note the new title!)

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

You are invited to a Book Launch Party - Sat, Mar 27, 2027 at Crazy Wisdom Bookstore

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

The arrival of baby bluebirds sparked the creation of my nature essays. In early March I put up a bluebird nesting box. I had never done this before, but it just came to me one day to do it—the universe. The nesting box had a door that opened, with a plexiglass sheet inside. That way I could watch what happened in the box.

I watched the box for about three weeks, and finally I saw the beginnings of a nest. Day by day the nest was built, and eventually the bluebird laid four perfect eggs. These eggs hatched one day and—voilá—four little baby bluebirds.

I went out every day to watch the bluebirds, and this got me in the habit of sitting still for long periods of time in nature. After the bluebirds were gone, I was still drawn to sit out in nature—the universe again. I would drive into the forest on my ATV and just sit for 30 minutes or so, watching nature. Well, at first I was just watching. After a few times, I began to understand that nature was giving me gifts. It’s hard to describe what it was like, but I’ll try:

When I first arrive in the forest, it takes a while for my brain and body to relax. All I have to do is sit still, though, and the forest begins to work its magic. After maybe 10 minutes, I will begin to feel a shift in my brain and body. The way I understand it now is that it’s a shift from my left to right brain. The same thing happens in my writing practice.

As time goes on, I get taken more and more into my right brain, until finally I feel I have entered a kind of mystical place. I let myself fall into this place as best I can. As I continue to relax, I notice everything around me.

First it’s the movement—there is so much movement. Branches shift, chipmunks scurry, leaves fall from trees, etc, and I slowly understand that each of these movements has a gift for me. Granted, I move in and out of this miraculous awareness, but the longer I stay in the forest, the more I am able to remain in such a state.

If I continue to surrender, my body changes. I feel as if the forest has its hands on me, or arms around me, and is literally shifting the trauma inside me. I usually whisper to myself—surrender, surrender, surrender—so that I can receive the most healing possible.

The healing goes on for as long as I can stand it, for it is not easy to receive such powerful healing. As much as I’m learning about the miraculous healing power of the forest, I am also learning about my limitations as a human being.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book (note the new title!)

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

You are invited to a Book Launch Party - Sat, Mar 27, 2027 at Crazy Wisdom Bookstore

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

It started with the bobcat. I don’t usually see bobcats. In fact, I have not seen a bobcat since I moved here. But a few days ago, on my phone screen, I saw a picture of a bobcat in the forest. This bobcat had tufted ears and a striped tail, and he walked in a bobcat kind of way, shuffling from side to side with great power.

The image of the bobcat was taken by my trail camera. I set up a trail cam out in the old oak forest so I could see what kinds of animals were hanging around out there. Usually, I see deer and maybe some wild turkeys. One time I saw a fox. But never have I seen a bobcat—until this week.

The arrival of the bobcat was not accidental. He showed up because I needed his help. Bobcats are guardians of hidden knowledge, and keepers of the truth. They urge you to trust your intuition, pay attention to the details of your life, and cultivate independence. They emphasize the importance of strategic thought, patience, and tenacity.

The main character of my novel has lately been showing up around me. I felt her at the doctor’s office. I felt her in my bedroom. I felt her at my writing table. The bobcat urges me to pay attention to these visitations, but to patiently wait while my thoughts start to crystallize.

Just as importantly, though, a bat showed up last night in my house. This bat was meant to teach me something too. I recently had a laser treatment done on my face. This was to prevent skin cancer. I have had many bouts with skin cancer, including a basal cell cancer on my nose. The doctors removed the basal cells and took a good part of my nose with them. Then a plastic surgeon did his best.

But still, there is a pretty big scar on my nose. No one else probably notices it, but I see it every time I look in the mirror. This scar pisses me off, and I don’t appreciate having to look at it every day.

Denial of emotion is a proven cause of skin cancer. That is another reason why I chose to get my face treated with a laser. I believe it was a big step forward, toward independence and healing. I refuse to continue to deny my emotions.

There is such a thing as a cancer personality—a person who denies and swallows their emotions. Cancer personalities are more likely to act in self-sacrificing, appeasing, patient, and accepting ways. This suppression of their feelings releases huge amounts of hormones that damage the natural cycle of cell growth in their bodies.

Well, I’m not taking my situation lightly. So I chose to have the doctor run a laser across my face, paying special attention to my nose. Laser treatments have been proven to lessen your chances of recurring skin cancer. Bring that laser on.

A laser treatment is a controlled rebirth, using destruction to stimulate a person’s own natural healing process. The laser helps people shed their damaged skin cells, so new healthy cells can live.

To facilitate my healing I also write with skin cancer, and ask it why it comes. Melanoma told me un-lived life. In my heart I knew what that meant. I guess, though, I never did write with the basal cell on my nose. Maybe I’ll do that now.

“So—basal cell—why did you come?”

“You were a willing target. I didn’t have to work too hard to find you,” basal cell says.

“That’s unnecessarily mean, don’t you think?”

No answer. I wait a minute and then ask another question.

“Why the tip of my nose? Do you really need that much attention?”

Basal cell pauses, then says, “If you listened to me and took care of me, I would not have to treat you this way. But since you dismiss and deny me, I have to take drastic action. Learn to listen. Learn to comfort. Learn to stay present. Then the skin issues will pass.”

This makes sense and I stay silent, trying to absorb basal cell’s words. Then I start thinking about myself as a child. I was basically on my own as a child, except for my relationship with my father. But my father started drinking in earnest by the time I was six, and then he slid into alcoholism. This profoundly changed my relationship with him. My only choice, I thought, was to bury that trauma inside myself. So I created a sort of stage within me, and put everything that happened on that stage. I pushed the stage far away from me, and went on with the rest of my childhood.

A part of me, though, has remained on that stage all my life, along with both of my parents. Oh yes, I put my parents on the stage too. I put myself in the center of the stage, and each of my parents coming down a set of stairs. I’m pretty sure my father was the murderer, and my mother was the monster, and they were both coming down to get me. It was terrifying.

But I didn’t allow myself to remember what actually happened in my childhood, so I stayed frozen on that stage. Part of me remains there still, waiting for me to rescue her.

I thought maybe the laser might burn an opening to this stage, and I guess it probably has, but there are other things that need to happen too.

When my father became alcoholic, I thought it was all my fault. I thought if I tried hard enough I could stop him from drinking. Little did I know that alcoholism is a disease over which all of us are powerless.

I have been sober now for 17 years, and in that time, I have suffered many bouts of skin cancer. My sponsor said she thought of the skin cancer as poison coming up and out of my body. I like to think of it that way now. It makes me less afraid.

Alcoholism has a mind of its own. Once it gets its tentacles into you, it will not let go. In this, it is a lot like skin cancer. The two diseases grow without their owners’ permission.

This all connects to the bat that appeared in my house last night. I was peacefully minding my own business, taking care of myself after the laser, and suddenly this bat shows up out of nowhere. I had to get a rabies vaccine this morning because the bat arrived while I was sleeping, and could have bitten or scratched me, and I would never have known.

But the bat also came to give me a message, I’m sure of it. Let’s see if I can find out what it’s trying to say.

“Bat, why did you come?” I ask.

“You ask why,” the bat answers, “I am as wild as the deep, dark night, and so should you be too. You buried yourself long ago, and I am a representation of the darkness you denied. You expect others to ignore your darkness. Well, I will not do it. I will not ignore what you need to bring out. It is your job to open yourself up. Just because it wasn’t safe when you were a child, doesn’t mean you’re not supposed to do it now. Be courageous.”

That brings up my character, Rae. Rae is the dark version of myself, who stands next to me, or nearby in a corner. She came with me to the laser treatment and stood beside me as I endured it. I think she was cheering me on. Maybe she felt hopeful about how it might bring the two of us together. Did it? I wonder.

How do I forgive without swallowing myself whole? How do I accept this bat for what it is, and understand its message without fading into the darkness, never to be seen again.

“Banging against windows and doors is just like her—inside you—trying to get out,” the bat says, “help her.”

I’ve tried. I’m clueless as to how to do this. I meditate with her most days. I write with her most days. I walk with her out in nature most days. When is it going to be enough?

“That is where your problem lies,” the bat says, “you are trying too hard. She knows you don’t love her. She can feel that. It hurts her to the bone.”

Well, how am I supposed to manufacture love for a creature who is despised? I listen to the plants and animals when they tell me they love me. I only know that I’m afraid of my character and myself—kind of like the bat.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book (note the new title!)

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

You are invited to a Book Launch Party - Sat, Mar 27, 2027 at Crazy Wisdom Bookstore

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

A magic red dragonfly escorted me on my walk today. He came to me just as I was crossing the boardwalk. I said hello and thanked him for being there.

Apparently, red dragonflies are the last dragonflies to arrive in summer. They show up in late July and often stay through October or even into November. I’m guessing that the dragonflies I saw are called Autumn Meadowhawks. Mature male Meadowhawks are bright cherry red. The females and immature males start out yellow and then turn red and tan.

So it was the males who accompanied me today. They darted in and out of the weeds beside me. Once in a while, one would fly closer to me, then dart away. Dragonflies are difficult to capture in a photo because they are supremely sensitive to movement and shadow.

The color red is associated with the root chakra, which is at the base of the spine. The root chakra governs your fundamental sense of security, stability and survival in the world. Its associated body parts are legs, feet, bones, skeleton, and adrenal glands. If you have a blocked root chakra, you’re likely to suffer chronic anxiety, financial worry, and a feeling of being disconnected. I think I need some balancing in my root chakra. Maybe that’s why the red dragonflies visited me today.

A red dragonfly spiritually symbolizes deep personal transformation, passion, and vitality. In Japan, red dragonflies are sacred symbols of autumn, courage, and the return of ancestral spirits during the Obon. The Obon (or Bon) is a traditional Japanese cultural festival held to remember and honor the spirits of deceased ancestors. It is believed that during the time of this festival the ancestral spirits temporarily return to the world to visit their families.

So let’s imagine I’m out now walking on my land. Red dragonflies dart in and out of the tall grass beside me. They don’t buzz or make any other sound I can hear, but I know they’re bringing me a message.

“Do you hear? Do you hear? Don’t fly past just yet,” I imagine they sing.

I walk more slowly, not making any sudden movements, so the dragonflies will feel comfortable. I do cast a shadow, though. I can’t really help that. But I figure if the dragonflies’ message is that important, they will find a way.

Suddenly, I feel a tap on my shoulder, and when I turn around I see an especially bright ruby-red dragonfly. He is a handsome dragonfly, full-bodied and robust, and he wants me to notice him. So I keep looking right at him, and he starts to show off. He dips and twirls, showing me his flight skills. Impressive!

I think about my father, who was a pilot in the Navy. He used to fly through hurricanes to take measurements. Needless to say, he never had motion sickness after that job.

I remember one time watching a video of the cockpit of a plane flying through a hurricane. The men in the cockpit were taking measurements, and acting as if everything were completely normal. Talk about feeling unstable and ungrounded—I cannot imagine. I guess you’d have to have a pretty strong root chakra to do something like that.

I follow the red dragonfly, and eventually he is joined by his buddies. The buddies are not nearly as bright as he, but together they fly in formation. I imagine my father with the other Navy pilots, flying high in the air with their stiff metal wings instead of gossamer lace. I wonder if the dragonflies ever look up at the planes and shake their heads at our crude attempts to fly.

Red dragonflies often appear around life episodes of loss and death, but they are also an omen of good luck and new beginnings. They are signs that you are on the right path, and that new opportunities and good fortune are on the horizon. Red dragonflies encourage you to release past burdens and move forward with confidence and optimism.

This all fits me pretty well. My mother recently passed away, but I am also about to start something completely new. I am planning to publish a book next spring. I think my mother passing away and me publishing this book are connected. The day I found out my mother died, the idea for the book began to surface.

A new dragonfly jumps from the weeds and pulls my attention to the side of the trail. The weeds look tired now; the summer is almost over. But the dragonfly is full of life. He has waited a long time to be out here in the air.

Last year, just about this time, the dragonfly’s mother laid an egg in the marsh mud. That egg did not hatch immediately, but went into a state of dormancy called diapause. Diapause is like suspended animation, or hibernation, but it is predictive rather than reactive—meaning that dragonflies enter diapause before the cold weather arrives.

In the spring, as the marsh waters warmed, the egg hatched into a nymph. Nymphs are baby dragonflies. They have six legs, big eyes, short wing pads, and a brown color that helps them stay camouflaged. They stay underwater for 8 to 16 weeks, eating mosquito larvae and other aquatic insects.

Nymphs have a hard exoskeleton made of chitin (the second most common carbon-based material in nature after plant cellulose.) They have to shed their rigid exoskeletons many times while they are in the water, to make room for their growing bodies.

As I imagine these hard exoskeletons, I think of my relationship with my mother. I always felt there was a hard shell between us—an exoskeleton—either hers, or mine, or both. I tried to penetrate that shell using many different methods. But I was never able to do it. I remember wondering if she were made of plastic, like one of my dolls. I’m pretty sure I decided then to beef up the shell around me. That might have saved my life, but it was quite limiting, as I was never able to shed the shell when I needed to. Maybe the dragonflies will teach me how.

In late summer, nymphs climb onto the cattails and shed their final larval skin. Then they unfurl their wings. What a sight that must be. The adult dragonflies can emerge—bright red and shining.

A group of red dragonflies begins to gather round my head. They lead me to a fallen tree, and I sit down and they tell me a story. This story is about their ancient relatives. The ancient dragonflies were huge, with wingspans of over two feet, making them the size of small eagles.

These ancient dragonflies developed before the dinosaurs, when the earth’s atmosphere had much more oxygen than it does today—35% compared to just 21% today. This helped these ancient dragonflies become fierce aerial hunters. They had very little competition.

The red dragonflies swarm around me as they tell me their story. My body feels lighter as I listen, until I am almost floating in the air. The dragonflies think this is quite humorous and they laugh heartily, and so do I. I thank them for the gifts they have given me, and together we fall asleep in the warm sun.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book (note the new title!)

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

I just saw a snapping turtle out in the forest. The turtle was a she, and she was beginning to give birth. Not like we humans give birth, but with eggs, the way turtles do. I noticed her beautiful shell like a sculpture, her clawed feet and tiny eyes. Then I came back into my house to write about it. Which is a lot like giving birth. In fact, it is exactly the same.

There are these little eggs—stories—that our bodies hold for us. We might not realize it, but they are always there. Once we’re ready, the stories begin to make their way out. Just like little turtles pushing out of their shells. The stories push and push and are never happy until they have arrived on a page. Since I have been writing every day, I feel these stories more easily. In fact, sometimes I swear I can see them under my skin getting ready to be born.

Yesterday I had an MRI of my brain, an amazing process wherein powerful magnets sweep over you and take pictures. I don’t pretend to understand the technology, but I thought I could feel the energy of the magnets in my body. It made me feel warm. I did my best to cooperate with the magnets, so they could extract whatever story is inside my left ear. The left side of my head has been an issue for a long time. I used to get migraines regularly, and they always started on the left side. But I haven’t had a migraine in years. Once I started writing stories, the headaches began to fade.

Now, the migraines are but a whisper, but something is going on in my left ear. The doctor thinks maybe it is the bones of the inner ear. She mentioned possibly a tumor, but said she was hesitant to say that, as she didn’t really think that would be the case. Regardless of what may be going on physically, I think the problem is a very large story lodged inside that ear, getting ready to come out. I have had some experience with this kind of thing, as, when I first began writing, I found stories in my joints, usually on the left side of my body. These then switched to the right and then spread to the whole of my body.

Now there is a story stuck in this ear, and I wonder if the problem is that I just don’t want to hear it. Thus, the hearing loss only on the left side. The doctors will probably point to some genetic deformity, a stretched tendon, or maybe deteriorating bone. But I know, deep inside myself, that I have a pretty giant story getting ready to come out.

It might be the case that this is part of my novel. For, after all, the novel is beginning to take shape. Perhaps the left ear is trying to free up material, something that has already been written. Because I have written a lot.

When I saw the birthing turtle, she gave me a message: “Rest is important.” Then—“There’s always a skeleton.”—meaning that I am not to worry, the novel will continue to take shape. Then—“Don’t waste your energy.” Then—“You have to stand alone sometimes.” So, the basic takeaways: I need to give my left ear—and my story—plenty of space, trust my intuition, and align myself with turtle energy!

Some history and facts about snapping turtles (from Audubon Magazine 2012):

“Snapping turtles are sometimes irascible and always prehistoric looking. But these relics, which have been around for 90 million years, are the ultimate survivors. Snapping turtles have witnessed the drift of continents, the birth of islands, the drowning of coastlines, the rise and fall of mountain ranges, the spread of prairies and deserts, the comings and goings of glaciers.

Between mid-May and late June, female snappers disperse upstream from shallow ponds and marshes, sometimes for weeks, looking for well-drained, exposed ground, anywhere the sun hits for the majority of the day…If you want to see a snapping turtle nest, go out on a rainy early morning in June.

A young snapping turtle’s fate depends upon its mother’s choice of a nesting site, which determines both a hatchling’s size—moist earth produces larger embryos than dry earth—and its sex…Known as temperature-dependent sex determination, the temperature of each egg midway into the first trimester of incubation influences a hatchling’s sex…mostly males develop at temperature between 70 and 75 degrees, and mostly female above 84 degrees or below 70 degrees. A clutch of eggs may produce mostly females on top, where it’s warmest, and on the bottom, where it’s coolest, while males dominate in the middle of the nest.”

Lessons from a turtle on how to give birth to a story:

Slow and steady wins the race. Thus, you must pay attention to the details in your current project and take your time with it. In other words, don’t be tempted to skip steps or take shortcuts. You will get there!

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

I have had this experience many times in writing. In fact, I would say writing is usually like this. I’ll be writing along, and I think I know what my writing means, and then I’m forced to step back for a moment. When I return to my writing, I see something different. That’s how breakthrough happens. Without breakthrough, I would never get anywhere.

My experience with characters is like this also. Characters are folded up inside me, waiting until I am ready to see them. When I make the quarter turn, the characters appear.

Writing is a two-step process: Step one: create literary chaos. Step two: make order from that chaos. Step Two feels like putting together a puzzle; you never know when a new piece will appear.

Making the quarter turn humbles me, forces me to admit I know very little. Writing knows better than I do what direction it should take.

But if you look at me sideways, you’ll see the splendor inside—golden thread woven into muscle and bone. That is the raw material writing uses to create.

I wonder now if my characters are mad at me. After all, I left them not too long ago. I think they might be like bats hanging in a cave, waiting for me to write them back into existence.

I often bounce between different writing projects to help me manage the stress of the process of creating. Currently, I’m trying to get distance from my second book. I’ve been working hard on this book and I am somewhat exhausted.

So I bounce back to my first book with all its lovely characters. I’m pretty sure this first book must be pissed at me. Probably both books are pissed at me now.

But it wasn’t easy for me to leave the first book. I just knew I was not skilled enough at the time to bring the characters to life. The characters must have known this; they are me, after all. Or do characters come from another dimension, not really connected to their authors?

I believe people are like accordions, with characters folded up inside. When the time is right—and the characters have sufficient propulsion—they come flying out into the world so their authors can know them.

I think characters must be a sign of improving health.

I would love to think my characters are currently sleeping in nice soft beds. Or maybe they’re walking together holding hands. Probably, though, they’re hanging in a cave, cursing the day they met me.

Maybe my characters are hanging somewhere inside me—from my ribcage or my spine. No wonder I have issues with L4!

Honestly, though—I love you, little characters. I’m sorry if I sound unkind. I’m halfway joking, but also halfway terrified.

Last night I watched a movie about Neil Armstrong, and I tell you, little characters, I could relate. He was ultimately the only one responsible for getting that ship to the ground.

That’s me with my characters and my books. I am the only one now who can make it all happen.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

Author’s Note: All events and characters in this story are entirely fictional. Except for the impossible things.

A few days ago, I bought a blue stone with the name of apatite. Sounds like a weight loss drug, but it’s not. Apatite comes from the Greek word apate, which means deceit. But this stone represents the truth and speaking your mind. The reason the stone was originally named apatite is because it is often mistaken for other stones that look the same.

I didn’t know any of this when I decided to buy the stone. I was just looking for a blue stone. The reason I was looking for a blue stone is because of therapy. I wanted an object to represent a part of me that is beginning to surface. Having this part choose an object would help me stay connected, my therapist said. I asked the part of me if she had anything particular in mind, and she immediately showed me a blue stone. It didn’t really matter what kind of stone it was, only that the stone was round and blue.

So we looked at pictures online, and apatite jumped out. Now I have a piece of apatite sitting beside me at my writing desk. I have also been carrying it with me back in the forest. I sit out in the forest and hold the stone in my hand and listen. Sometimes the new part of me speaks—not in words, but in sensations.

Turns out, apatite is a useful stone for writers. Apatite is known as the stone of manifestation. It provides motivation and focus, making it a favorite for anyone looking to break through a creative block. Well, that would be me. I’m in the creative block of my life. Apparently, the universe has stepped in once again to help me.

Apatite is also known to be a bridge between the physical and spiritual realms. It is believed to heighten psychic awareness and help one recognize and release past patterns. Apatite is associated with the throat and third eye chakra, making it a stone of communication and vision. If you struggle to speak your mind, apatite can help you stand up for yourself and stake your claim in the world.

Who knew?

I am smack in the middle of finishing my novel. By that I mean, I am piecing together the paragraphs I originally wrote, adding structure where it’s needed, creating character descriptions, and generally helping to bring the reader into the scenes. When I originally wrote this novel, I threw it out of me like a lifeboat into the ocean. The book literally saved my life, but I couldn’t do much with it at the time.

I got the book out of the water, and now I am on dry land—well, semi-dry land—my land in Chelsea. I own twenty acres of wilderness land surrounded by a swamp. I have never owned land, and I certainly didn’t know how to take care of it, but the land has taught me all I need to know, and surprisingly, the land has also saved my life.

Sounds like my life has been on the line quite a few times, I know, but that is the truth. For most of my life, I took a backseat to whatever happened to me. I never completely inhabited my body; never was able to be fully present for the people I loved.

Then one day I found out I had melanoma, and everything changed. I wrote with melanoma and asked it why it had come. It answered me clearly, saying, un-lived life. I knew exactly what that meant, and since then, I have used every bit of my energy to cooperate with the universe, instead of trying to disappear. This blue stone is just the latest manifestation.

My father was an officer in the Navy, and he flew planes on aircraft carriers. I have watched pilots taking off and landing on carriers, and I’m astounded that they can even accomplish this. My father was rightfully proud of his ring. His ring was gold with a blue stone that looked very much like the one I picked. I didn’t realize that when I picked the stone, but it is nonetheless true. The little part of me that has lately surfaced loved my father very much. The blue stone in his ring was like a North Star to her.

The novel I’m trying to finish is about what happened as my father descended into alcoholism. This is not a pretty story. The little girl part of me got buried at that point, and other parts of me took over. These other parts kept the little girl submerged until she felt safe enough to head for the surface.

I often carry this new blue stone as I walk around my trail. Hawks circle overhead, and sometimes eagles. I see groundhogs, chipmunks, bluebirds, wrens, raccoon, fox, rabbit, and deer. I never know who I’m going to see each day, and that’s part of the adventure. I always see who I need to see.

In Spain there is a legend surrounding Apatite. A group of witches used to meet in the Cercon de Brujas (Witch’s Circle), and one night one of the witches found this blue stone. She pulverized it with her fingers and scattered the ashes onto the embers of a hearth. This brought thousands of suffering souls up and out of purgatory, and the souls swarmed above the fire with phosphorescent eyes, giving off a greenish glow that resembled precious emeralds.

You never know what a stone can do, likewise the power of nature.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

I see my body lying on a blue cot. The cots are set up in rows in the gymnasium. Nap time. We get to rest.

To grow you need to evaluate. Somehow that has not happened for me. I am not planted. There is no soil available.

My friends lie napping, chubby little hands resting on their chests.

I am a kind of giant drifting through the aisles, my legs like two useless strings.

But I am also stuck to the ground, my two feet firmly planted under the floor. No matter how hard I pull, I cannot pick my feet up.

So I rest here with my friends, in this timeless place.

My teacher stands by the window. Her hair is like cotton candy, fluffy and pink. Giving her a hug is the most delicious thing.

I wonder if she knows about me being Frankenstein, my two monstrous legs dangling. I’m afraid to mention it because she might take me to the principal’s office. “What’s the matter with you, young lady? What have you done with your legs?”

So I drift through these rows of cots. Touch a forehead here. Squeeze a shoulder there. I am an angel in charge of the kindergarten nap room. I didn’t volunteer—it just happened.

Now I am stuck in this noble profession, and I don’t know how to get out.

Sometimes, I see blue sparkles drifting from my ankles. It is what allows me to fly.

The room is like a cathedral—blue stained glass windows with sleeping cherubs.

I press my hands together and pray to be somewhere else, somewhere where little girls are firmly potted in nice round containers.

I am certain that is where I will bloom.

***

Watch for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

Author’s Note: All events and characters in this story are entirely fictional. Except for the impossible things.

I’ve always loved salamanders. When I was a young child, I used to hang out in ravines and turn over stones, so I could see the salamanders lying underneath. I knew nothing about salamanders then, but somehow I knew they were my protectors.

Maybe lions would have been a better choice.

But no—dear salamanders—I don’t mean to insult you. You were my fierce protectors and I knew it. We were a team from the start.

I was not repulsed by your slimy skin, nor how you lived under rocks. Those things brought you even closer.

I would gather us into a circle and have a powwow. You told me of your 300 million years on earth and what it was like before the dinosaurs came. I consider you to be the earth’s rightful owners.

A vernal pool has lately arrived in my forest—a temporary body of water that shows up in early spring. Vernal pools are where you come to find a mate. You emerge from the cool, damp dark, running your limbs along the ground. You don’t care that your stomach drags. You are free. You survived the winter.

Somewhere between a frog and a snake, you slide into the water and lay a jelly-like mass. This jelly then turns into you—first with gills and fins, then lungs, then limbs. Until finally, you become what you are today—glorious protector of the empire.

Salamander, o salamander—I feel you in my skin, my lungs, my feet. I remember you before the dinosaurs came, before the birth of my heavy brain.

We humans have now taken ourselves to the edge of destruction, salamander. You must have something to say about our stupidity.

Tell me your secrets and I’ll absorb them through my skin. Remember? You taught me how.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

I would like to tell you about yellow snow. Not the yellow snow you probably think of when I say that, but yellow snow that appears around the base of oak trees in winter. I noticed this yellow snow after a recent snow storm where I live. Patches of yellow showed up around the base of the oak trees. I saw them first because of deer tracks leading up to the trees. There were tracks leading up to the trees, but no other tracks leading away. This seemed strange to me, so I did some research, and this is what I found:

Yellow snow appears near the base of oak trees when tannins leach from the trees. Tannins are compounds contained within trees that protect the trees from fungi, insects and bacteria. When there is a lot of wet snow, tannins get washed from the trees. The tannins then leach into the snow, creating yellow spots.

I was also curious about the deer tracks leading up to the trees. I researched this too and found a partial answer. Deer hang around oak trees in winter 1) because of the acorns the oak trees produce, and 2) because of the warmth the oak trees provide. Oak trees keep their leaves much longer in winter than other species of trees, and, since trees’ leaves absorb and hold the sun’s energy, oak trees are literally warmer in winter than other trees.

I, however, would like to offer an alternative explanation:

A few years ago, twin fawns were born back on my land. At first, their mother hid them from me in the underbrush, but as the fawns got older, they began to venture out to play. I wanted to get to know the fawns, so I purposely spent time in the forest, sitting on a bench under the grandparent trees. I was often tired after the hard work I had done that day on the land, and I would sometimes fall asleep on the bench. This was an invitation for the fawns to come near.

When I awoke, the fawns would be standing close. And maybe because I was half asleep, I often heard them speak. The fawns spoke in feathery voices, soft and gentle, as they explained the ways of the forest. Here is some of what the fawns said:

We would like to tell you about the fairy villages inside your oak trees. Humans can’t see these fairy villages, but we fawns can. This is because fawns believe in fairies. Fairies also believe in fawns. Fawns and fairies, both, are quite afraid of humans—I’m sure you can understand!

On cold winter evenings, fairies light fires and dance to keep themselves warm. They make these fires inside the oak trees, because they know the oaks will keep them safe. It’s the tannins that do it. Tannins create a safety zone for fairies and fawns alike.

On days when yellow snow is present, fawns get invited to enter the fairy villages. All the fawns have to do is stand in front of an oak tree and trust that a door will open. If we believe strongly enough, that door will open.

All fawns believe in fairies, but older deer seem to have forgotten how. So our parents often don’t get invited to these fairy dances. They just don’t believe in fairies anymore.

Once we enter a fairy village, we join in the dance around the fire. This dance, in turn, accelerates the release of tannins by that tree, and that creates a super safe space for us to play.

Fawns and fairies dance all night, and when the sun rises, the fairies let us out. We wander back to the swamp where our parents are sleeping. Often our parents did not even realize we were gone.

The yellow spots eventually fade, as spring arrives in the forest. But we fawns know that winter will come again, and with it the magical yellow snow. Maybe we can convince our parents to join us in a dance.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

Originally published in Teach. Write. A Literary Journal, Oct ‘25 Edition

“For sure, she’s a bird; but her guilty conscience drives her to shun the eyes of men and the glare of the daylight.” ---Ovid

Owl can see what others cannot, which is the essence of true wisdom. Athena—the Greek goddess of wisdom—had a companion owl on her shoulder which revealed unseen truths to her. Owl had the ability to light up Athena’s blind side, enabling her to speak the whole truth, as opposed to only a half truth. Here’s hoping Owl will do the same for me.

Truth is, I’ve been struggling with health issues for the past few weeks. I wake up at night, worried. I’m hoping Owl can help me see the full truth of the situation.

Because I was not feeling well, I was unable to get out on my land. The land does something for me that nothing else can. I’m usually locked up tight inside, as if I’m wrapped in chains. But when I’m out on the land, those chains begin to break.

So this morning I went out on my land and took the spirit of Owl with me. I thought perhaps the land might partner with Owl to try to help me heal. The first thing I noticed was a feeling of fear. I often feel fear when it’s dark and there are no day sounds around me. One night I heard an owl outside my bedroom window. The owl made an eerie sound. It felt like the sound was winding its way around me, trying to pull me to the ground. That is exactly how I feel now. Only this time the sound comes from deep inside my body.

What am I in the dark about? How am I being deceived? Have I lied to myself about someone or something? Remember that owl is always asking—who?

Who is rummaging around inside me? It used to be easy for me to look outward for an explanation. Now I can’t get away with that. I must see the darkness I carry within.

Suddenly I am thrust into a memory:

I sit cross-legged on the linoleum floor. My mother stands at the kitchen sink. I am absolutely frozen in place. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. My mother bangs dishes, swears, turns and glares at me. I have no defense.

Actually, I do have a defense—a defense of my own design. I feel this defense atop my shoulders, sort of like wings. The wings hold me up. Without them I would collapse. I carried these wings all of my life. Why the darkness and illness now?

Maybe the grandparent trees can help me. The grandparent trees are tall, so much taller than my mother, but they do not scare me. They are kind. They love and support me. I feel it every time I’m out on the land.

I hold up the little girl inside me to the grandparent trees. This girl is cut off from the forest, encased in what feels to her like plastic. The plastic is the same as her mother’s skin—untouchable, unknowable, rejecting. The trees bow to the little girl in respect. They cherish her. But her plastic does not breathe; it allows for no connection. No breeze can flow across this little girl’s shoulders.

I sit atop my mother’s dresser. A bottle of perfume leans against my leg. I pick up the bottle and put it to my nose. My mother swoops down and rips the bottle from my hands. She moves so forcefully I topple backward off the dresser and onto the floor. My mother laughs, douses herself with perfume, then walks away.

This memory has been wrapped in plastic inside me for such a long time. But I’m sure the trees know how to handle it. I’m with a different tree this time—the large pine at the south end of my property. I always imagine this pine wears a long dress that drapes to the ground. The pine sees the plastic bundle inside me. It feels how heavy the bundle is, how alien. I brush my hands across the pine’s bough and a calm energy flows through me. I am so used to defending myself against my mother, I rarely take time to feel the simple grace of a tree.

Suddenly I notice an owl sitting in a dead tree beside us. The tree is gray. The owl is gray. My feet freeze and my toes begin to curl. Owl does not waver. She does not blink. My toes curl even more.

“Who are you? Who? Who?” My mother does not pay attention. But she easily could, so I have to be still. The floor is like ice. It hurts my legs. But I mustn’t move. I mustn’t move.

Owl sweeps me back to the land and I take a breath, then let it out slowly.

“Just a bit of the plastic today,” says Owl, “we don’t want to open too much.”

Owl flies to me and sits on my shoulder, sending her energy through me. She looks at my curled toes.

“You see how much tension you create by holding your body like that?” she says.

Of course I do.

“There is no need to be rigid. You’re not holding a perfume bottle. Your mother is not here. The forest is here. I am here. We all want you to heal.”

I tumble off the dresser, hitting my head as I fall to the floor. The carpet is rough and hurts my skin. I wait for my mother’s shadow to fall on me. Once the shadow hits, I must swallow myself. It’s a law I made. Wings sprout from my shoulders. It’s my only way out. My mother has so much perfume on, I can smell her from across the room. She’s coming. I have to get away.

Crack! Owl drops something from the top of the tall dead tree. The sound pulls me up and over, and I bend down to see what Owl dropped. It’s the skeleton of a mouse. Owl is unapologetic. This is how she learned to save herself.

“You must do the same. You must save yourself. I will teach you,” Owl says.

I stand in front of the dresser, perfume bottle in hand. I raise my arms, then smash the bottle down. Glass cracks. Liquid sprays. I smell just like my mother.

I look around to see if my mother is there. She is not. Owl is there. Owl smiles.

“This is what we do with mice,” she says, “Don’t apologize for it. You must be a predator or you will be prey.”

I run my hands along my arms, spreading perfume and glass. Small cuts pop up all over my skin. The perfume makes the cuts sting. Owl grabs the mouse skeleton and throws it at the mirror. The mirror cracks and I see myself in pieces. An owl is sitting on my shoulder.

I remember the story of Athena. Owl nods majestically.

My mother walks by in a girdle so tight she’s like a soldier. That’s the way she likes it. Then I am next to my mother’s bath. Her skin is like plastic; it doesn’t connect with the water. I wish I could just drown. Actually, I already have.

Owl swoops down from the ceiling and into the water. She splashes, cutting my mother with her talons. Owl is angry, so angry. Just like I should be.

“Who are you? Who are you?”

No reaction from my mother. She cannot hear Owl. She cannot hear me. She never hears me. My toes curl.

“Who are you? Who are you?”

I don’t know who I am, but I have someone inside who wants to come out now.

Owl grabs the mouse skeleton with her sharp talons and tosses it from the room. Then she tells me to follow. I am out in the forest and I can take a breath. I stand in front of the old, dead tree, holding the mouse skeleton in my hands as an offering. Owl sits quietly on my shoulder. We stay that way for a very long time.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

“…In the evening the bats weave soft black circles and their wings splash delicate ink upon the pale blue air…” ——Joseph Auslander

A bat showed up in my house last week. It showed up in and I had to figure out how to get it to leave. So I put on my winter coat and oven mitts, and opened the outside door to let the bat out. The bat did not fly away, but instead hung on the curtain rod above my window. I captured the bat in a plastic bag then took the bag outside and left it on the ground.

The bat flew away.

When I moved to this property, three years ago, I was visited by another bat. In my efforts to deal with this bat, I learned about something called bat exclusion. A bat exclusion expert does not kill bats, but instead determines how the bats enter your home. Then the expert seals up the entry points and places tubes so the bats can get out but they cannot get back in. This process takes about two weeks to complete, and, during that time another bat might find its way into your house.

I am currently in the middle of a second bat exclusion process, and I am sleeping in a “bat cave.” At my friend’s urging, I bought a mosquito net structure to put over my bed—what you would take on a camping trip. This is my bat cave. I sleep in it every night, just in case another bat decides to show up.

Bats are messengers of change. They indicate that a chapter of your life is about to end and a new beginning is on its way. In Shamanic traditions, a bat in your house is a call to face your fears so that you can emerge stronger. A bat is a symbol of shamanistic death, and the goal of ancient initiations was to break down all your former notions of “self”. That is what has been happening to me.

These bat visits have now twice coincided with huge changes happening in my life. First, the change of me moving to this house in the wetlands. That first bat visit broke me open. It scared me and I was caught off-guard. I was therefore willing to be flexible and learn a new way.

The second bat visit coincides with a huge change that happened to me through a recent illness. Turned out there was nothing physically wrong with me—all the tests were negative—but I felt, through this illness, a new level of myself opening up. I heard in my spirit—“I am reconnecting you with your body.” I heard this many times, and, in fact this is what happened to me. A part of me was able to resurface. I had buried this part of myself during childhood, to protect myself, and so I would not die.

In the Bible, bats are associated with uncleanliness and impurity. Since home is a sacred space, the appearance of a bat can mean that you have experienced a violation.

In Chinese culture, bats are a symbol of good luck, happiness, and longevity.

Native American cultures considered the bat to be a symbol of intuition, dreaming and vision. They would invoke its spirit when special energy was needed, like “night-sight”, which is the ability to see through illusion or ambiguity and find the truth.

I want to look upon this bat as a gift. What has he come to tell me?

I can guess that he asks me to look deeply into the truth of my past. He wants me to let go of the denial of the abuse I went through as a child so I will be able to move forward. I am attempting to do this through the revision of a book I wrote. This book is a work of fiction, but I believe it describes some of what I went through as a child.

I have to admit, though, that I’m afraid of bats. The bat expert told me he sees grown men cower in fear around bats. He says the men often blame their wives, pressing him to work more quickly to get rid of the bats so their wives will not be afraid. I told him I love living near the wetlands because of all the wildlife that is here. I am trying to extend my love of wildlife to bats. So far I have not been successful.

William Shakespeare equated bats with witches, spells, and curses. In “Macbeth” the three witches chant: “Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog.”

There is also the European connection of bats to vampirism. This mostly came about because of Bram Stoker’s novel “Dracula”. Count Dracula was able to transform himself into a huge bat at will.

In Southern Nigeria, bats are associated with witchcraft. Anyone who experiences a bat flying into their house will most certainly become bewitched.

So it kind of makes sense that I’m afraid of bats. But now I feel I’m being asked to let go of this fear and embrace the change they demand. How can I make this change happen?

For one thing, I can continue to pull my novel together. This is a hugely-daunting task, but I work on it every day. I could decide that the universe is trying to help me with this process by sending the bat—“A chapter of my life is ending, and a new beginning is on its way.” Looked at in this light, a bat could give me hope.

The bat guy says he is always supremely busy. He says that bats do not discriminate between rich/poor, big house/small house, city/country. But he did say that bats like to be around water, and I am around water. So there’s that.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

A few days ago, I was sitting out in the old oak forest. I make it a practice to sit in nature every day. I call the place where I sit my sit spot. My sit spot is right in front of the Grandparent Trees. The Grandparent Trees are the oldest and wisest of the trees in the old oak forest. They stand at the forest’s west edge along the trail.

I took a walk around my property that day and I was growing tired. So I sat on a bench in my sit spot to watch the forest. I have had so many amazing experiences watching the forest. I never know what’s going to happen next.

In forest therapy training they told us that when you spend time sitting in nature, your body shifts from the sympathetic to the parasympathetic nervous system. You move from fight/flight to rest/digest mode. In rest/digest mode you heal in all sorts of ways. I notice this shift in my body most days when I sit out in nature. Especially when I’m near the Grandparent Trees.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep that day, and when I awoke, deer were standing all around me. Mama deer looked right at me. I have regularly seen mama deer during the past three years. She gives birth to new little ones every spring. This year she had twin fawns. I never knew deer could have twins.

I was so surprised to see the deer, as they hadn’t been there when I fell asleep. I talked softly to them in a gentle voice, and they seemed to like it. Mama deer did not seem afraid, and neither did her fawns. We enjoyed the others’ company for a minute or two.

Then a bigger deer showed up, another female whom I now think of as the mother-in-law. Mother-in-law was not pleased that mama deer was talking to me. She began to snort, like bucks sometimes do, and she motioned mama to leave. Mama didn’t want to leave, so she didn’t. But mother-in-law wouldn’t give up. She snorted some more. She may even have pawed the ground. Finally, mother-in-law convinced everyone to leave.

I was sad to see the deer go, but happy they had been there in the first place. Seeing deer unexpectedly is apparently a powerful spiritual sign. It can tell you that you are in a time of rebirth and healing and that you would be wise to slow down. Some people believe that deer are guardian angels or spirit guides that come to watch over you. The way a deer moves can teach you the importance of adapting to circumstances and finding your unique way to move through challenges. Deers teach you to be gentle with your emotional wounds.

I am in a time of profound rebirth and healing right now. I recently went through a health scare, whose purpose I believe was to reconnect me with my body. During the health scare, I heard in my spirit—I am reconnecting you with your body. I didn’t hear these words audibly, but rather sensed them in my body, and I didn’t just hear them once, but four or five times. I believe anything you hear more than once is truly important.

My tests were negative and I was given a clean bill of health. While in the doctor’s office, I mentioned that I was dealing with some particularly powerful childhood trauma. The doctor said she couldn’t begin to tell me how many times a day she hears something similar from other patients. We decided that perhaps buried trauma had been the cause of my symptoms.

After making it through this health scare, I noticed some profound changes within myself. Suddenly, I felt connected to a part of me that had previously been buried inside. I remember burying this part in childhood because I knew I would die if I didn’t. As the part surfaces, I often feel like I’m dying. My therapist says I’m having flashbacks, which, she says, are no small thing.

Tell me about it.

One byproduct of this reconnection with myself is that I now feel better prepared to finish my novel. I have struggled with finishing this novel for quite some time now, and it always felt like a part of me was holding me back. Now, I feel this little girl part of me sitting beside me, helping me to write. We write together as a team. This is the first time we’ve ever been able to do that.

I won’t say the writing has been easy, but I did make it through the Table of Contents, Introduction, and Chapters One, Two, and Three. Now I’m working on Chapter Four—a description of my angelic character Grace. I see Grace a little more clearly now, so I’m hopeful I’ll be able to help my readers see her too.

I believe deer are guardian angels working in tandem with the Grandparent Trees. Deer watch over me as I do this difficult work, reminding me to take it slowly and gently. Their appearance is a reward for allowing myself to sleep in the forest. Deer get scared when I am in my sympathetic nervous system. I can’t blame them. I scare myself when I am that way!

Maybe I can even win over mother-in-law. I don’t have far to go with mama deer. She seems to trust me now. The twin fawns don’t pay me much attention. They’re usually too busy playing. I’m glad I can offer these deer a safe place to hang out. They offer me the same.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” ——Khalil Gibran

When I see this quote, I’m drawn to write about my fictional character Rae. Rae and her two sidekicks came to me during a writing workshop I taught a few years ago. In the middle of the workshop I suddenly had the sense of three characters standing behind me. I had never had characters before, so the concept was entirely new. But these were unmistakable characters, not simply projections of myself.

I named the characters Rae, Margot, and Grace. Rae was definitely the strongest of the three. I sensed that Rae was highly-troubled. She seemed brittle and fragile. It took me a long time to get to know her through the writing of this fictional novel.

Rae had no idea how wounded she was; that was one of the most amazing things about her. She simply persisted through all kinds of emotional torment. She buried her suffering in a tomb that she created within herself. Of course I hadn’t known this when Rae first showed up. I learned it as I wrote with her.

I sensed Rae strongly, almost to the point of her physically being there. Of course Rae wasn’t physically there. When I say these characters “stood behind me”, I don’t mean they actually physically stood behind me. I mean I sensed them. Their essence was there, urging me to write.

I believe these characters were assigned to me to teach me how to write in a new way. The characters were also assigned to me so that I could tell their story. I have tried to tell their story to the best of my ability. It hasn’t been easy. But I am now at the point of bringing their story together in my novel.

Today I worked on Chapter Three. This is an organic process, not a linear one. It feels like I hold a living organism in my hands when I work on the chapter. I press and mold the chapter lightly, eventually easing it into its rightful shape. I don’t have full control over the chapter. If it’s ready to develop, it does. If it isn’t ready, it won’t develop. Fingers crossed, the chapter seems to be ready now.

Anyway, back to Rae. She is definitely a larger-than-life character. The kind Khalil Gibran talks about in this quote. Physically Rae is not tall, but she seems tall when you interact with her because of the walls she has built around herself.

Rae doesn’t like to let people in. Left to her own devices, she would probably never let anyone in. But even Rae is human, and humans need others to heal. Rae does want to heal, though, but she has no idea how to do it. Mostly because Rae has no connection to her wounds. Wounds are where the most healing, creative material resides.

Rae suffered great trauma at the hands of her parents. Of course, her parents didn’t know what they were doing, or they surely wouldn’t have done it. But Rae suffered mightily, and the only way she could survive as a child was to bury the trauma she suffered.

So Rae created a structure deep within her psyche. In this structure she stored every wound she received as a child, along with the other qualities she deemed particularly special. She didn’t do this consciously. She was just a child. But children can be brilliant when called upon to save their own lives.

You could describe the structure within Rae as an alternate personality, but I don’t want to psychoanalyze Rae. This wouldn’t do her justice. Rae is epically creative. She never even should have survived her childhood. Yet she did survive, and she created—or maybe tapped into—a whole other dimension of herself that I named Grace.

It took me awhile to realize that I should name Rae’s alternate personality. But I eventually understood that this kind of creativity deserved its own name, if for no other reason than the sheer force of will it took to create it. So I honor Rae for being such a creative being—superhuman and above the rest.

Because Rae needed to keep such tight control over herself, she affected others in a negative way. She had to invent all kinds of false fronts to put up and she fooled people most of the time. Maybe it’s because people are inherently selfish and concerned mostly with themselves. Or maybe it’s because people were frightened of Rae. But they never took the time to find out what was really going on inside her.

Rae contained multitudes. Great creativity comes from the deepest wounds, and that was the case in this situation. But Rae was not able to benefit from what was inside her because she could not connect with the truth of her experience. Rae lived her life with little to no understanding of who she really was. That made me tremendously sad.

I’d like to think, though, that Rae was able to live through Grace. I mean, that has to be true to some extent, as they do both live in the same body. Maybe, in some corner of Rae’s psyche, she actually knows what happened to her as a child and was able to live freely in the world through Grace. I guess that was the point of my writing the novel.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

I have always loved trees. Particularly birch trees. There were many birches in the forest where my family and I used to spend our summers. This forest was a bit of a walk from our cabin, so we had to drive to see it. We drove in an open vehicle on a winding dirt road. Dust would spray over us, coating our skin and clothes. I luxuriated in this dust. I loved everything about it. It felt like war paint preparing me for battle.

I was close to a specific group of birches in the forest. The group stood in a circle, off to the side of the other trees. I could relate. These birches were tall and covered with loose paper bark. Their bark was white with black streaks. I was thoroughly enchanted by the black streaks. I imagined they were words in code. If only I could figure out the code, I would be able to read the birches’ stories.

Each time I visited the forest, the birches would wave at me. I felt accepted and celebrated just for being myself. The birches created a thick canopy that allowed for much shade underneath. This shade was the perfect place for moss to grow. I adored moss. I imagined little villages of fairies living in it. I would press my hands into the moss and listen. I didn’t press hard enough to injure the fairies, just hard enough so they would know I was there.

Then I would relax into the birches’ tempo. My thoughts and breathing would slow. I would become like a tree—entirely calm, not worried about my family. Sometimes I would fall asleep and the birches helped me dream. They took me on adventures to other forests, where they introduced me to different kinds of trees and animals.

Eventually I would remember that I had to return home. I didn’t want to leave. It was painful to be with my family. But the birches did not want me to get in trouble. So they held me gently, reminding me they would be here when I came back.

I remember one special day I spent with the birches. We were alone. My family must have dropped me off and left. As I lay under the tallest birch, I heard a voice say, “Go ahead, pull off some bark.”

I feel this in my body.. I look around to see who speaks. No one is there. It must be the birches. The trees have prepared me for this. My body is a finely-tuned instrument, designed to hear the trees’ voices.

I want to do what the voice instructs. I know the trees have stories inside. I studied trees at school and came to the conclusion that tree rings were actually stories pressed into layers. If I can just pull off this bark, I know I will find the trees’ stories.

“Go ahead. Pull it off.”

I grab the tree’s bark and gently pull. I’m so afraid of being wrong about the stories.

“You won’t be disappointed.”

I pull the bark and my life begins to unwind around me. I see my father standing by a crystal clear lake. He holds a fishing pole in his hands. He drinks too much alcohol. My mother gets angry. I get angry. But I never say a word or show any feelings. That is not allowed.

The fish flop uselessly in the bucket. I feel sorry we caught them now. Sometimes we throw the fish back into the lake. Other times we don’t. Then I eat the fish just like everyone else—breaded and fried in the pan.

“Go ahead, keep pulling.”

I pull off another layer. This time it’s my mother. She stands by our cabin. Her eyes are lifeless, like the fish in the bucket. I see that someone has captured her and is keeping her prisoner. She wants to do the same to me.

“Don’t be afraid. We’re here.”

My mother shakes her head and brushes past me. Her sweater feels like acid on my skin. I hate everything about her.

“Here,” the tree says, and hands me a small piece of bark. “Sit down. Rest. This is a lot for someone so young.”

I sit on soft moss and lean my back against the tree. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The birch presses against me. I know I am safe. My eyes close and I drift into sleep. In my dream, the tree and I walk together down the dirt road. We walk as a team. No one can bother us. The fish roll their eyes and I feel like screaming. The tree puts just the right amount of pressure on my back to counteract the acid of my mother’s sweater. My mother begins to disappear. Until it’s just the tree and me together, walking down the road.

We make our way back to the forest. The birches wave us in. We sit together and I tell them about my mother. The oldest birch grimaces. The others do the same. Then they begin to shake their branches in unison. As they shake, pieces of paper fall to the ground. Page after page flutters. Until there are enough pages to make a book.

When the shaking has stopped, I gather up the pages and settle in for an afternoon of reading. The birches listen intently as I begin to tell their story. Then lean in close and wrap their branches around me. I decide it might be worthwhile to stay alive for just one more day.

Julie Mariouw

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

Last night I dreamt about a roomful of threes. All around me—inside every object—were little number threes. I’ve never dreamt about numbers and it made me curious. So I looked up the possible meanings of the number three.

Number three is associated with creativity, communication, optimism, and enthusiasm. It is also associated with past/present/future and birth/life/death. Number three indicates a sense of wholeness or accomplishment in the dreamer’s life. It also represents spiritual growth, or connection with a higher consciousness.

I thought I’d have a conversation with three of the number threes, to see if I could find out more about their message:

Number threes, why did you visit me?

We are three, three, three. We are young, young, young. We are here to tell you something. (They sang this in harmony…)

Lovely.

We are three of a kind. Three alone. Three meant to be together.

I see.

Little. Little. Little.

Does that mean that you are young in age?

Yes. And no.

How no?

We have been around a long time. But we are also young. We have many dimensions.

I see. Did you visit me because of my novel?

Yes. And no.

How no?

The novel is how we manifest on earth. But we also live in other places.

Why were there so many threes in my dream?

We are three. We are three. We are three.

Well, yes I know. But why were there so MANY number threes in the dream? If you’ve come about the novel, I would think it would just be the three of you.

We needed to PUNCTUATE the message. (They added great emphasis to the word “punctuate”…)

Your message is that important?

Yes. Yes. Yes. We are three, three, three. (Here their voices faded…)

I would like to receive your messages more clearly. Is there something I’m getting wrong?

We hardly know what you’re getting and what you’re not getting. You’re so busy thinking, thinking, thinking. We do not live in that realm. It’s frustrating.

Did you see that I printed out the pages of my novel? I lined up the chapters on my hall table.

That is us, us, us. Also you, you, you. (Here they sounded like a ringing bell…)

Am I moving in the right direction with this novel? It’s hard to know.

Yes, yes, yes. And no, no, no.

How no?

It’s painful when you lose confidence. It’s why we sent the threes. Threes can prop you up and hold you steady. You need their help right now.

How do I access their help more easily?

Don’t be so, so, so impatient. (They spoke rather sharply…)

I appreciate any help I can get.

Pay attention to us IN the novel. (They added great emphasis to the word “in”…)

How do I best do that?

Threes are sprinkled throughout the novel. Little threes, little threes, little threes. (They trailed off…)

When I was out in the forest today, it occurred to me to look for threes in the trees. Is that the same as in the novel?

Yes, yes, yes. And no, no, no.

How no?

We are not trees.

No, of course not.

We are angels.

I see.

If you look carefully at the number three—3— you will notice how the lines curve into containers, sideways cups. The power resides within those cups. That is where we live.

I see.

We are young, young, young. We need help, help, help. (Their voices faded…)

If I find threes in the manuscript, what then?

You have the power to bring the threes together. You have already done this in the large manuscript, but now you need to do it in between the lines. Finesse—that is how you will bring the novel together.

It’s daunting. I’m glad you’ve come to help me.

Yes, yes, yes. You need our help, help, help. That’s why we’re here, here, here. (Fading…)

Do you think that I will actually finish this project?

Yes, yes, yes. But maybe no, no, no.

How no?

We don’t know, know, know. It’s up to you, you, you.

How can I make sure it will happen?

You must decide you will let us help you.

How do I better let you help me?

Listen. Connect. Don’t run away.

I will do my best. Is there anything else you need from me right now?

Food!

Angel food cake, I’m assuming?

Yes, yes, yes. And no, no, no. (They went away, carrying pieces of cake…)

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

The forest seems intent on healing me. Take today, for instance. I was walking on the trail, taking notes on Shakespeare. My latest writing project is about Shakespeare, and I was looking for inspiration. I carried a small notebook and, for the first half of the walk, I wrote down what came to me. Then, when I reached the entrance to the mini-forest, I saw what looked like a hip bone lying on the ground. It was a thick piece of wood shaped exactly like a hip joint. I was a little shocked when I saw it, it looked so much like actual bone. I stared at it a moment, then immediately realized that my writing subject had changed. I was to write about hips, not about Shakespeare.

I’ve been writing daily for quite a while now—sixteen years—and in this time, I have learned that writing is in charge. When I first started writing, I thought I was in control. I had been taught this in school, and it’s how I functioned. But, as I’ve continued to write in this new way—letting writing take the lead—writing has begun to change me. I never know how writing and the forest will accomplish this. Today it was through a piece of wood shaped like a bone.

I’m pretty sure the forest brought me this gift to help me heal from childhood trauma. I was born with congenital hip dysplasia, which means that my hip joint was not formed correctly in my mother’s womb. Some of the risk factors for this disorder include: Being firstborn—that would be me. Female sex—check. Breech birth—yep. Positive family history—yes. Joint laxity—I’m learning I have this. I was a prime candidate for developing hip dysplasia.

My parents did not catch the problem until I was about one year old. By then, I was already starting to stand and walk. To be honest, my parents weren’t paying much attention, or they would have noticed something was wrong. Regardless, the doctors had to do something if I were going to be able to walk. So they put me in traction, then plastered me into a body cast. They try not to do this to babies anymore.

This was too much for my mother. She simply collapsed under its weight. She had trauma of her own, and this triggered it, like one domino knocking down a row of others. This had catastrophic results for me, the most important being the dissolution of my relationship with my mother. Dissolution is a harsh word, but it’s accurate in this case. Dissolution: A dissolving or being dissolved; a breaking into parts; disintegration.

Of course, I don’t remember precisely all that happened to me as a child. But I can guess, from the way things turned out, that at the point of the body cast, my mother simply disappeared emotionally. Through writing, I have remembered many occasions in which I reached out to my mother. My mother rarely reached back. I don’t know how I made it through childhood with a mother who was not only absent, but at times seemed bent on my destruction. For my mother did actively try to hurt me. She was jealous of my relationship with my father. But these are stories for another day.

When my hip failed, my life took a completely different turn—both at the age of one, and again at the age of fifty. I don’t remember much about one, but I do remember fifty. Basically, my hip began to fail. I would be walking and suddenly the hip would lock up. I was in extreme pain and totally unable to move. My super-shallow hip joint was now disintegrating. It couldn’t hold me up anymore.

I was aware of the trauma I had been through as a child, but I had never been fully able to process it. Now that trauma was breaking through and I was being asked to deal with the emotional roots. But first I would have to fix the physical problem.

I scheduled a hip replacement. I was, of course, unconscious when they performed the surgery, but I can only imagine how this new medical trauma must have triggered the old. I remember the first steps I took with my new hip. I felt like I was falling into the Grand Canyon. It took an impressive amount of willpower for me just to initiate the movement. When my foot touched the floor, a bolt of electricity jumped into my leg, then raced through the rest of my body. Of course, this was not only physical, but also emotional. I understand now that my body was letting go of the tight control that had been wrapped around me as an infant. The body cast was being dismantled.

Sixteen years of daily writing has taught me more about this trauma, and healed me in many other ways. Now nature is adding to the work. Today, as I walked on the trail, my lesson from nature was unmistakable. I suddenly felt as if someone had their hands on my hips and was leading me forward. This was an actual, physical feeling, but, of course, there was no one there. I have had this sensation a few times before—always when I’m walking on the trail. Gradually, I have come to understand that nature is trying to heal me. This might sound strange, but it is true. This sensation has been repeated three or four times.

The pressure on my hips began to rearrange the position of my knees and ankles and, in so doing, changed the way I walked. I’m not saying these physical changes are entirely permanent, as the effects start to fade when I leave nature. But each time the sensation occurs, I’m convinced a small part of me does get permanently healed. Over the long term, my body feels different.

By the time I reached the Frog Crossing sign near the end of the trail, the forest had full control of my hips. It steered me to the entrance, and led me under a tree canopy, and I suddenly found myself in the middle of a vivid childhood memory.

I am visiting my aunt for the summer, playing in the large ravine behind her house. I love this ravine. My favorite thing to do here is to look for salamanders. I don’t think salamanders are slimy or ugly, and I’m not afraid of them. I think they understand me. I’m pretty good at knowing which rock to turn over to find the salamanders. I also intuitively understand why they would want to hang out under rocks.

I make up stories with the salamanders. This summer, we are in the middle of World War III. They are soldiers in my army, and I am depending on them to protect me. Together we have to face the enemy and win our secret battles.

I think WWIII might have originally started when I ate a green potato chip. A group of us were sharing a bag of potato chips, and I got one with green on its edge. I was sure I shouldn’t eat it, but I was so hungry I ate it anyway. For the rest of that summer I was totally convinced I was going to die. I never told anyone about this, except for the salamanders. They understood and helped me to fight for my life.

I recognize, now, that this was a part of myself who felt she was contaminated. She directed me to eat that green potato chip so I would become aware of her. She came into existence because of what was happening with my father back home. He was violating my boundaries and I was certain it was all my fault.

The salamanders knew that WWIII could help me. They showed me how to get angry. They showed me how to fight for myself. And they showed me how to win. The only problem was, I couldn’t take any of these skills back home, as it would have been way too dangerous. But for this short, two-month period, I was as free as any salamander. Nature had come to my rescue.

These days, nature is coming to my rescue again, along with the practice of writing. The two work together to heal the trauma inside me. I never know what I will receive when I walk out in nature, nor how the writing will lead me through it. But I do know that the combination of nature and writing is unbeatable—better than WWIII. Nature kept me alive back then, through unspeakable childhood trauma. It’s my turn, now, to pay nature back.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

Julie Mariouw is a former English teacher and Amherst Writers & Artists facilitator who offers online and in-person writing workshops through Wellspring Writing Workshops, LLC, which she founded in 2016. Julie combines the power of metaphor, the senses, movement, and nature together with writing, to create healing and increased creativity. Julie’s writing has been published in Wilderness House Literary Review, Teach.Write.A Literary Journal, Recovering the Self, The Huron River Review, The Brick Magazine, Crazy Wisdom Journal, Natural Awakenings Magazine, and Verdad Magazine.

Website: https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wellspringwritingworkshops/

Heal through Writing & Nature

This publication is about the combined healing power of writing and nature.

By Julie Mariouw

​

A few months after I moved into this house my character appeared. She showed up in my bedroom one night, standing on the carpet. She didn’t move, didn’t talk. She was just a powerful presence. It kind of freaked me out. But I knew right away who she was. Rae—the protagonist of my novel.

“It’s only a passing thing, this shadow.” Well, Rae has been passing, but then she returns. She is a powerful character. She is a troubled character. She wants me to finish my novel.

My novel sits in pieces on atable in my living room. I have a Table of Contents and the different chapters laid out in order. Every Friday a friend comes over and sits on the couch behind me. She does this to give me moral support. I need it when dealing with Rae.

But Rae is not the only character in the novel, I must remember. There is Margot—the narrator. Margot is also troubled, but not as troubled as Rae. One of Margot’s biggest problems is that she is obsessed with fixing Rae. Granted, the universe did give Margot this assignment, but Margot would rather focus on what’s wrong with Rae than take a good look at herself.

The third character is Grace. Grace is really a part of Rae, but she is also an angel. Frankly, we’re not really sure who Grace is, but we just know that she has great healing powers. But Grace is not so simple either. She has a lot of depth as a character, and we begin to see a bit of her dark side—the dark side of power. But, since Grace is not entirely human, we don’t get too frightened. For, after all, angels have to follow rules too. So, we conclude, must Grace.

The working title I have right now is—“Three Women: The Mechanics of Grace.” You can take that many ways. For instance, we might think of the mechanics of this angelic character Grace. Or, the mechanics of the way grace (the word, not the character) works in these characters’ lives.

Definition of mechanics: a branch of physical science that deals with energy and forces and their effect on bodies.

Definition of grace (the word not the character): unmerited divine assistance given to humans for their regeneration or sanctification.

So we don’t know whether we are talking about the character Grace and who she is, how she came about, how she functions. Or we are talking about the way grace from God works in the lives of all these characters. Or all of the above. It doesn’t really matter. Rae—and everybody else—needs a lot of help!

I’ve lived in this house for three years now and a shadow has been passing over me. You could say this was Rae, but of course not entirely. But something, someone, has been haunting me for the past three years. At the same time, I have received many blessings. I was led to train as a forest therapy guide. I have already experienced so much healing out on my land. Then there’s the land. It’s like a playground for my psyche—for other people’s psyches. I feel this was God-given, as I knew I would be led to a place in nature after I finished writing my novel.

I have finished the rough draft of the novel. That doesn’t mean I’m all done. I think of it now like a table full of jigsaw puzzle pieces. Paragraphs that belong in certain chapters, but that have to get put together in the right way. Why do I have puzzle pieces instead of full text on the table? It’s the way I was given this novel. It was dictated to me by these three characters. As I wrote the novel, I felt the three characters standing behind me. They dictated what I was supposed to write. They spoke to me through my body, not so much my mind. Of course, it had to be somewhat through my mind, or I wouldn’t have been able to write any words.

These characters taught me to pull the stories out of my body, and get them down onto the page. I believe that children—especially if they grow up in a traumatic environment—store parts of themselves away for safekeeping. At least, that’s what I did. Because children do not have a fully-developed brain, they don’t have enough room—or the intellectual skills—to hold traumatic events in their brains. So they store the events—as stories, as metaphors—in their bodies. This is what the characters showed me as we wrote together.

Before I wrote this novel, I was more or less a disembodied head with hands sitting at my computer. There was very little connection between my head and my body. These characters brought my body online.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

I am currently training to be a forest therapy guide. I have a lot of assignments for this training. Today’s assignment was to spend at least thirty minutes out in nature, being open to anything I might receive.

Today I receive sounds:

I love you grandparent trees. You are the same every time I come out here. I thank God for that in this tumultuous time. You are sturdy and strong and you love me, I can tell.

Grandfather tree, today you give me the sound of leaves rustling. In your right arm you carry a dead branch. I don’t think this branch is attached. But still, you don’t let go. It seems such a loyal thing to do.

As I notice the bare forest, you rustle your leaves loudly. I know you do this on purpose, grandfather tree, and I thank you. It is exactly what I need to bring me out of my head and into my body.

Suddenly I am alert to all the sounds of the forest. Oak leaves from nearby trees join in a symphony of sound. Birds top off certain parts of your song. I know it is your song, grandfather tree. I know you love me enough to try to make me happy.

The same thing happened the other day when I was out here. I came back to complete a forest therapy assignment, and you shook your leaves at me then too. I think you are as sad as I am that it is so cold outside. I think you miss me. I know I miss you. I wish we could spend more time together.

I realize how much sound makes up for the lack of growth in winter. My friend said that the land is asleep right now. That is so true. But you, grandfather tree, never sleep, do you? You are always here, right next to grandmother tree, waiting in case I might need you.

I wonder if sound does make up for sight in winter. Sound seems to carry further in winter. This is how The Discovery Channel explains it:

“On a cold day, there tends to be a layer of warmer air above the cold pockets closest to the ground. When you shout to a friend down the street or hear your bus (finally!) arriving, the sound wave that would ordinarily go out in all directions gets refracted by that warm air. Because sound moves faster in warm air than colder air, the wave bends away from the warm air and back toward the ground. That's why sound is able to travel farther in chilly weather.”

Grandfather tree, I love you. I feel your gray arms wrap around me every time I’m near. I thank you for your steadfast purpose. The world needs it right now. If there’s anything I can do to help you, I would be honored to do so.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books

The floor falling out from under me was grace, though I did not know it at the time. God reached for me and pulled me toward Him, away from what I couldn’t see and still be alive. It took me a long time to sense the grace I had received. I am only just now coming to understand.

It’s like the hummingbird—a living rainbow—darting into my life and bringing God. I fell into grace standing at my window—vibrations from an unseen world. I felt the vibrations in my body, not my mind. Then I truly understood.

How do I explain what this creature brought me? A bit of this, a bit of that, wound into life at a frenzied pace. So much more than I could comprehend, yet given with the slightest of touch. That is the way of nature.

Now I understand there is more in a single molecule than in the whole of the universe. Looking back, I knew this when I was a child.

So what does a hummingbird have to do with grace? Grace—a blessing that is an act of divine favor or compassion. I’d say that fits exactly. But who knew it would come in a body so small.

At night the hummingbird goes into a state of torpor. This is like hibernation. The hummingbird almost dies, barely making it to the next day. And when the hummingbird awakens, it must depend solely upon the flowers for sweet nectar. It never knows if the flowers will be there.

Yet, in the morning the hummingbirds wait, holding grace in their fiercely-beating wings. They never thrust it upon me. They wait quietly until I feed them, giving, in return, centuries of learning that most people never notice.

I call it wild grace, natural grace, grace beyond human comprehension, the true grace of God.

Can I ever give back to the hummingbirds what they have given to me? I have come to know them personally, call each hummingbird by name. I swear they recognize me— characters unfolding at my window. These kaleidoscopes of color fit together with the finest precision.

I am truly blessed.

***

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book:

Awakening: Healing through Writing and Nature

Release date - March 25, 2027

https://www.wellspringwritingworkshops.com/books